


Breaking Point

by honestys_easy



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: High School, M/M, Masturbation, Tennis, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's been skipping physics class, but it has absolutely nothing to do with Andy's tennis team practicing at the same time. Nope, not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loves_anodyne (machka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/gifts).



> Written for the [Pan-Fandom Musician RPF Jerk-Off Spectacular](http://bulletproof-fic.livejournal.com/13536.html). Canon notes: yes, Neal and Andy did meet in high school when Andy was a freshman and Neal a senior; and yes, Andy played tennis while there, though I don't know if there was a particular varsity team. Everything else about this is completely false. :P

Neal hadn’t gone to physics class in two weeks.

He’s a musician, he rationalized, he’d known that since the day he picked up a guitar, and the only physics he needed to know was how to make the music travel through the air, out of his amp and into his audience’s ears. Besides, senior year was all about coasting, anyway, he already had his college acceptance lined up and nothing short of firebombing the school would stop him from graduating by now. Fuck physics; it had nothing to do with Neal, and so Neal wanted nothing to do with it, either.

It had nothing to do with the fact that the tennis team practiced during Neal’s physics class. Nothing at all.

Up on the top rung of the bleachers he was as unrecognizable as he could get, the school uniform doing its job of keeping him anonymous, his redheaded crewcut camouflaged by the campus’s changing leaves. Neal always kept his songwriting notebook splayed out in his lap, always intending to write, and always finding he ended up with less than three notes on the page. His pen would be poised in hand, hovering over the paper, but his eyes would be intently fixed on the tennis courts below.

Today, the standard school gym sweats were left in the locker rooms, and every player on the courts were in startlingly bright tennis whites; team uniforms, to practice for the tournament against Broken Arrow that weekend. Neal knew this, not because the school advertised the rivalry or acknowledged any athletics team besides the football jocks, but because Andy had told him.

Neal squinted from the glare of the afternoon sun as he watched a last straggler exit the locker rooms and jog onto the courts. He slouched a little lower in the bleachers, his cheeks suddenly turning pink and not from the slight bite to the autumn air. There was Andy, his best friend, his partner in crime, half of the pair that never made sense to anyone else in school: the menacing-looking, loner senior with the heart of a poet, and the shy, big-eyed freshman with the voice of a god.

It worked for them, however implausible the match, and for the past month Neal had felt he finally found the voice for his songs, the striking sound he had been searching for nearly half his life.

He had found some other things he had been searching for, too, like the sudden tightness in his pants when Andy touches him, leans over Neal’s shoulder to look at what Neal’s been writing, or the way his gut jumps into his throat whenever Andy smiles at him in the school hallways, like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. These were the kinds of things Neal didn’t let the rest of the school know, much less his best friend.

Not the best player on the team, but certainly not the worst, Andy always argued that he preferred the weight of a guitar in his hands than a racket, and his t-shirts and jeans fit him better than tennis whites. Watching from this viewpoint, Neal begged to differ: the cotton, collared polo was light and airy for Andy’s freedom of movement, clinging to his shoulders when he sweated through a good workout, showing off the definition of his back muscles when he bent down to receive a serve. And those shorts...Andy complained they rode up after his last growth spurt, but Neal wasn’t looking to complain at all. Starched and pressed, the cotton shorts now landed closer to mid-thigh than just above Andy’s knees, their unforgiving inseams leaving them tight at the base of Andy’s thighs when standing straight, and stretched tautly against his ass when diving in for a drop shot. The school wouldn’t order more uniforms until the next season, and Neal thought he might die when that finally happened.

As traditional punishment for being the last on the courts, the rest of the team greeted Andy with playful jeers and smacks of their racket to his ass, all of which Andy took with a smile, even bending over exaggeratedly, doing his best impression of a pinup girl. A flare of jealousy rose up in Neal’s veins against the whole tennis team for their proximity to Andy’s ass and Andy’s readiness to give it to them; then regret quickly filled its place, Neal cursing himself for even thinking such thoughts about his best friend.

He stared down at the blank notebook in his lap, boring a hole into it with his eyes, trying desperately not to be distracted. But curiosity got the better of Neal and when he looked up again, the team was warming up for practice, running sprints along the length of the courts. Immediately he picked Andy out midline, the freshman’s face in deep concentration, chest heaving with shallow breaths of exertion. Neal’s own breath caught in his throat as he watched Andy race to the end of the court, pivoting his feet for the quick turnaround, muscles tight and defined as he jutted out one leg, a toned calf, the very peek of his thigh, to graze the baseline with the toe of his sneaker.

This time Neal didn’t even bother to curse himself for his less-than-pristine thoughts, a low groan escaping his throat as Andy quickly changed direction and sprinted the other way. The heat in his cheeks didn’t subside, and he found his own pulse elevated, his own breaths coming in shallow, and he wasn’t the one running anywhere. A shift of his position on the bleachers also made Neal acutely aware of how tight his school uniform now felt under the belt, his penis deciding that now was the perfect time to remind Neal he had no control over his own body.

Licking his lips self-consciously, Neal gave a quick glance to either side of him, already knowing he was alone on the bleachers. He _could_ do it here, no one was around to object or stop him...and if he continued to watch Andy’s tennis team practicing, he knew this little problem forming in his pants wouldn’t go away any time soon.

Slowly reaching underneath the notebook on his lap, Neal gave himself a rough squeeze over the fabric, a low groan erupting from his throat. But it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy him, or quell the rising urge in his gut. And shit, now the team was _stretching_...

Neal immediately picked out Andy among the twenty teens on the hard courts, pulling one of his arms across his chest and holding it there with the other, loosening the triceps before releasing and doing the same on the other side. His skin was still tanned from the summer, a beautiful contrast to the bleached whites of his uniform, especially in the autumn sun. When he was finished he clasped his hands behind his back, locking his elbows to loosen up his shoulder muscles. His back arched with the strain, and although Neal was too far away from the courts to hear anything past the coach’s whistle, he could swear Andy opened his mouth for a well-deserved moan.

He found himself moaning over the sight, a low rumble in his throat he tried to cut off but failed. Neal’s hand hadn’t moved from underneath his notebook, his palm pressing against the bulge in his pants, the heat of his own erection nearly unbearable. Rubbing against himself wasn’t doing anything to help alleviate the problem, one way or the other; with a tentative bite of his lip Neal made the decision, and his fingers popped open the button at the waist of his khakis.

Letting out a breath through clenched teeth Neal felt the crisp autumn air against his boxers, palming his length through the thinner fabric, nearly trembling in relief. He kept his eyes glued on the warm-up as he warmed himself up, running his fingers up the shaft and squeezing himself into a loose fist at the head. Neal gasped when he felt the wet spot of precome on his boxers, larger than expected and still spreading...he leaned back against the bleachers’ railing, dilated blue eyes threatening to close, but his willpower forcing them to stay open, and watch the teenager in white.

Warm-up quickly ended, and after a short talk from the coach the team divided themselves among the line of tennis courts along the campus grounds, two to each court. Andy was paired with a tall, sandy-haired sophomore, who tossed a nod over the net as a form of greeting. Limbering up further, Andy flexed his calf muscles, growing taut underneath his skin, and bounced on the balls of his feet, jump-starting his adrenaline. They began lobbing tennis balls to each other, a friendly precursor to the competitive speed both players would engage in at any moment.

 _Oh shit, he’s fucking bouncing..._ Neal thought, his breath coming in pants, his hips pulsing ever so slightly into his fist. He wanted to admonish Andy for that, for causing the coiling discomfort in his balls to spike with sensation; but to do that meant admitting he had been watching Andy practice, and even worse, _getting off_ to his best friend in his tennis whites.

Neal wasn’t anywhere near ready to let Andy know about these little discretions--much less admit he was into guys, much less admit he was into Andy--but fantasizing about adding his own signature white to that tennis uniform? Oh, that was completely within reach.

Still he wanted more, dared to expose himself a bit further: lifting his hips up off the metal bleachers, he shifted his pants and boxers down, tucking the elastic underneath his balls, his cock springing up like it had been released from fucking Alcatraz. The cool air had him gasping for breath as he took himself into his hand again, shielding himself as best he could with the notebook. Keeping up the appearance of writing was a waste at this point; Neal didn’t even know where his pen was anymore.

The players took their positions as the practice match began. Andy, serving first, stood with his back to Neal; normally Neal would have criticized the view, but the back of Andy Skib was certainly nothing to ever complain about, and certainly never in those tennis whites. Andy tested the elasticity of the ball in his hand, bouncing it firmly towards the ground once, twice, before becoming satisfied. With a stern, concentrated look across the net, Andy held both ball and racket at arm’s length, the muscles underneath the short sleeves of the polo tightening with anticipation. Steadying himself on strong legs, Andy tossed the ball aloft above his head, its spin perfectly timed and gauged. Launching himself up as the ball reached its pinnacle, his serving arm came up in a large, powerful arc, connecting with the ball as his feet left the ground. Both ball and server came rocketing back to the court, Andy’s player instincts keeping him alert for the return, all of his senses heightened, all of his muscles alive with adrenaline.

If Neal hadn’t already put matters into his own hands, that surely would have done it: his chest heaved along with Andy’s movements, holding his breath in that one second he was airborne, coming out in a strangled sigh once the serve was complete. His hand never stopped moving over his cock, fully hard and curving up to his belly, every stroke in tune with his breath, coordinated with Andy’s movements. His fist closed in a little too hard on the crown when Andy’s racket finally made contact, a little too eager to watch his best friend reach victory in a practice match, a little too foolish to remember he wished to watch for as long as humanly possible.

The slit at his head leaked more fluid, responding to his body’s desire. As he swirled it around the rest of the head with his thumb, Neal heaved out a frustrated “Fuck!” as Andy’s first serve was deemed a fault. Neal would have to watch him serve all over again.

He thought he could barely last one point, much less an entire practice match, and his balls were starting to ache with the growing urge for release. But he managed to hold off for an entire game, watching as Andy played fairly well against an older student, holding his serve without much effort. A low growl came from Neal’s throat when he realized the next part to the match: Andy was about to receive.

Neal bit his lip hard enough to tear holes into it when Andy assumed the position, hunching over, the muscles in his legs like coiled springs ready to let fly. The fabric of the shorts stretched tightly over his ass, leaving so little to Neal’s imagination it made him whimper. Letting his mind drift to places he never would allow when he wasn’t horny, Neal imagined Andy bent over like that for _him_ , that perfect ass no longer veiled by the tennis whites, Andy’s muscles tight and aware as he hunched over, waiting for Neal’s first move, waiting, _waiting_...

“Oh, _fuck me_ ,” Neal moaned, immensely thankful he was alone on the bleachers, his hips bucking at his own fantasy. The notebook shifted and fell harmlessly to his feet, exposing him fully to the air, but Neal didn’t care, too deep in his pleasure and his own thoughts to even pay attention. Letting his eyes drift closed he tipped his head back again, thrusting into his fist with abandon, imagining it was Andy’s hand wrapped around his cock, his mouth, his...oh, shit--

The points went on as Neal lost himself in his fantasies and his own hand, a burgeoning stomach flu in his opponent allowing Andy to gain the upper hand. He returned the other player’s sloppy serves with accuracy and power, forcing winners he could only dream of placing on the court against Broken Arrow in the tournament. Even with a sick opponent Andy was working up a sweat, his brow shining with perspiration, the back of his shirt already wet. After his third triumphant point he picked up the hem of his shirt to wipe off his forehead, exposing his chest, readying himself for a possible fourth.

Forcing his darkened eyes open once more, Neal caught the perfect time to start watching the practice again: with a quick flash of white Andy hitched the front of his shirt up over his head, his skin the startling contrast to his uniform, his toned chest glistening with sweat in the sun. Neal could almost make out the sparse patches of dark hair forming on Andy’s chest, unkempt and beautiful, trailing down to a spot below the line of his shorts.

It was only a short glimpse, Andy back in form for the breaking point of the game, but just a glimpse was all Neal needed: he couldn’t get out of his head the thought of him running his hand down that chest, feeling Andy gasp underneath him as Neal brushed his fingers over a nipple. He ran his own free hand along his chest then, his nipples hard even through his button down shirt, imagining he was touching Andy’s chest, that Andy was touching him. He ran it down even farther as his other fist pumped his aching cock, down to his belly, lower into the thatch of red hair at the base.

He was almost wheezing now, desperate for release, yearning for it to be with Andy, someday. Perhaps even in those tennis whites. He traveled farther down as Andy prepared to receive, fingers ghosting against the velvet flesh of his balls, eyes locked onto Andy’s form as he returned the serve. Neal cupped them lightly, feeling the familiar rush of heat he’d been familiar with since puberty, but nothing like this, a wave of sensation he couldn’t hold back, his hips rolling off of the seat and into his hands like the ocean.

Andy’s opponent hit back one lucky shot of the match, the ball ghosting the net, causing Andy to scramble for a nearly dead ball. He raced as fast as his pumping legs could move him, straining his arm to reach low, scooping up the drop shot and lobbing an easy ball aloft over the net.

Neal felt himself moaning but couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stem the sensations he was giving himself, knowing how hard and how intense he was about to feel this. He imagined shooting his load over that bare chest of Andy’s, watching his come spurt out in stripes against the toned muscles, using a spent and sated cock to rub it into Andy’s dark, downy chest hair...

Andy’s return was a weak one, a desperate shot to stay in the point, and now he was up against the net with barely enough time to return to the baseline. He saw the gleam in his opponent’s eyes, knowing that Andy was in the tennis court’s No Man’s Land, and he leisurely let the ball bounce fair on his side, giving himself ample time to prepare himself and aim.

...Or his shorts--god _damn_ those shorts--pooled down at Andy’s ankles, Andy bending over for Neal, only for Neal. He imagined driving into him, claiming that taunting ass as his own, spilling himself deep inside as Andy asked, _begged_ for more.

But his eyes were too big for his swing, and the other player missed his perfect shot, the ball coming towards Andy with no speed or spin to speak of. Quickly his reflexes reacted, his right arm crossing over his body for a backhand, putting as much power as he could muster into his forearm. The ball sliced over the net in fair territory, his opponent reaching, reaching...Andy clenched his fist and smirked in victory when he saw the ball sail past him, he really made it--

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Neal moaned as tremors took over his body--

And, at the same moment, they both broke.


End file.
